


Only Wish To Serve

by Verabird



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Blindfolds, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Whipping, pbam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert makes it so easy with his ready obedience and wilful submission. It would be cruel for Gisquet not to take advantage. </p><p>From a rather exciting set of prompts from the Dreamwidth Porn Battle for Firestorm717.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Wish To Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firestorm717](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/gifts).



  


Gisquet looks up from his notes, endless case reports written in swirling ink on cheap issue paper, long elegant fingers fold beneath each other and he lets out a deep sigh. Two candles flicker on either side of his desk, sentinels to his thankless work, and as he works out the cricks in his neck Gisquet considers the merits of relaxation.

Javert's still there of course. Kneeling obediently, thighs slightly parted so that the weight of each leg rests on its own dark floorboard. Gisquet told him to kneel, and Javert did, and the man can still feel how deliciously powerful it felt, cause and effect tingling in his veins. Javert always beholds him with such great mysticism. The plinth is entirely constructed in Javert's seemingly one-track mind, but who is Gisquet to argue when it puts sturdily muscular officers with cold faces and simpering eyes in his path? Why question it when Javert is willing to prostrate himself before the prefecture without a moment's hesitation; Gisquet cannot think of a reason.

Gisquet imagines Javert's eyes to be closed beneath the blindfold. His head hangs slightly, in respect not limpness, and the tail end of the thick woollen knot passes around his neck and dangles against his chest. The material twists in on itself, a loose flag against the heavy material of Javert's uniform. Gisquet notices that he still wears the outer coat, and the heat is sweltering, Javert must be suffering beneath all those layers of material, and indeed Gisquet sees a sheen of sweat on Javert's brow. A drop slides down his temple and gets caught in the wool of the blindfold.

"My work nears its close, Javert," Gisquet speaks aloud, voice echoing in the small and sparse room. Javert responds immediately, back snapping to ram rod straight from what was already strict posture enough. His head turns as best it can to the direction of the voice, and Gisquet watches Javert's chest rise and fall. Excitement? Fear, perhaps?

Gisquet is not an unkind man, but his proclivities occasionally extend to a certain amount of cruelty, and yet here Javert is to willingly oblige him. Gisquet has no doubt that he's abusing his position, but that is a thought to press close to the back of his mind and obscure with a thousand images of Javert in disarray.

"You may speak if you wish Javert," Gisquet says as he collects the case files into a neat bundle. "I won't claim your mouth just yet."

Javert swallows, licks his lips, opens his mouth. There's no sound, and after a moment Javert closes his mouth and resumes the laboured breathing through his nose. The silence seems to be a trial so Gisquet decides to relieve him of it. "Of course there is no necessity. You may also hold your tongue if that is preferred."

"Thank you, monsieur."

Javert's voice is strong and deep, with perhaps a hint of longing, not befitting of a man kneeling on the floor of the Paris prefecture with his hands on his knees, palms up. Gisquet is satisfied nonetheless. He makes for the door and opens it a crack, calling out into the dim corridor. The day is finished and the night shift officers have been despatched. A clerk will remain through the evening into the morning with a poor candle, but the station house will be otherwise empty.

"Touchard!" Gisquet calls, tapping ringed fingers on his thighs with thinly veiled impatience. The clerk appears and Gisquet sweeps aside to allow him access to the desk. He collects the papers, maintaining the neat edges, holding them close to his chest as he turns back to the office door. Gisquet appreciates this moment, when the clerk catches sight of one of the most respected senior officers in all of Paris kneeling with perfect obedience, sight taken from him. The clerk swallows, falters for just a brief instant, then nods to Gisquet and hurries out the room.

Gisquet chuckles softly. It's always worth it. He notices that Javert's chest has stopped moving; he's holding his breath. Gisquet bends and places his hands against Javert's throat. Javert's breath hitches, and a small gasp escapes his lips as Gisquet's fingers work on the knot of his cravat, loosening it so that he can see the dark leather of the stock beneath. He places his palm against Javert's cheek and makes a gentle soothing sound, a brief clicking of the tongue.

"Calm yourself Javert, we are alone."

The corners of Javert's mouth twitch, not into a smile exactly, but a look of contentedness, and Gisquet knows his breathing has stilled. He hooks two fingers beneath the leather of Javert's collar and pulls hard. Javert stumbles, but Gisquet does not relent, keeping a firm hold until Javert has managed to scramble fully to his feet. He hasn't lost all breath yet, but there's something desperate in the way he now drags air in through his now parted lips. Gisquet sighs and carefully puts his fingers to those lips, tracing them with delicate fingertips. Javert's tongue meets them, licking with a tentative touch, the act is almost pure.

"Oh, Javert. Why do you indulge me so?" The rhetoric is lost on a man so serious and forthright as Javert, and he gives an answer despite Gisquet not needing one.

"I only wish to serve monsieur."

Gisquet's own stomach lurches and his mind is changed, he did need that answer. He did. He pulls his fingers away and as Javert whimpers in mourning from the loss he replaces them with his own lips. Javert is a clumsy kisser. His hands dangle uselessly at his sides and his tongue moves with desperation before thought. There is no structure, only a wet heat, and Gisquet returns it with his own, soft pencil-pushing lips against the rough chapped lips of a man who spends the day patrolling in dry summer heat. Javert is a man of furious intensity trapped in the body of order, and Gisquet with his expensive elegant clothes and rings and silver tipped cane hides that same fever.

Gisquet draws back pulling on Javert's collar, leading him to the desk. "What would you do for me Javert?" Gisquet asks, taking hold of the bunched material at Javert's shoulders and pulling his coat from his frame. It lands in a heavy discarded heap and Gisquet runs his long fingers over the tightness in Javert's back, knots and tension are worked free beneath his unrelenting touch. Javert reaches forward blindly, finding the desk with his hands, curling his fingers round the wooden framework and gripping tightly.

"Whatever you desire of me," Javert replies, voice surprisingly steady.

"Anything?" Gisquet murmurs close to his ear, he's skirting on the unprofessional, he should keep these meetings civil, they are in the office of a high-ranking police official after all, not the gutter.

"If anything is what you order monsieur, I shall oblige."

"I request that you remove your clothes," Gisquet says quickly, bringing a sense of order back into his tone. He briefly touches the buckle of the stock. "Leave this."

Javert nods and wets his lips with a nervous tongue. His fingers fumble with nervous energy and soon his waistcoat and shirt lie forgotten on the floor, he feels less vulnerable now, the material did nothing to protect him. Soon his trousers are discarded too, and he stands with his hands by his sides, listening carefully.

Gisquet feels that same hot sense of power return, gazing upon Javert when the man cannot glance back. There is something truly special about this moment, his eyes run over Javert's muscles, stiff and well-formed from years of active service, and a sound of approval escapes the back of his throat as he sweeps over Javert's thighs and the fully erect cock between them. Javert recognises that moan for what it is, and somewhat uncomfortably he shifts his feet closer together. He dare not cover himself, there's no point or even reason to, so instead he stands as proud as he can.

Gisquet steps forward, places a palm on Javert's bare abdomen and splays his fingers, the tips dig in slightly and then slide in a perfect movement towards one of the strong thighs. Javert's eyes are still hidden beneath the navy wool of the blindfold, but his jaw is set and the rest of his expression is stoical. Gisquet nods in approval then grasps the base of Javert's cock, squeezing a little too tight before easing and settling into a series of smooth strokes.

"You must forgive me Javert, for what I wish to do tonight."

Javert opens his mouth, but any words he might have desired to speak are obscured by a strangled cry of pleasure as Gisquet spits on his hand and then continues to stroke, faster this time, with greater urgency. "You must forgive yourself too, for it is not penance, I only wish to satisfy myself."

"What will satisfy you, monsieur?" Javert manages to struggle out, it is broken and the final word is barely finished, but Gisquet catches his meaning.

"To punish, although the subject has earned no such punishment."

Gisquet spreads his fingers again and runs them down Javert's inner thighs. Javert moans and bucks into the lost touch, reaching blindly with his body for the hand that will satisfy himself again. Gisquet laughs softly and replaces his hand, the other presses against Javert's waist and holds him steady as Javert thrusts into his loose fist.

"We are all sinners," Javert says breathlessly. "I will find a way to deserve what you bestow."

"The man who has never lied," Gisquet says with amusement. "Yet he twists my words so easily his tongue might as well be littered with untruths."

"Then use that as my sin."

Gisquet considers for a moment. Javert will let him, he knows this, there is no reason to find excuse or reason for Javert will bare himself mind body and soul to Gisquet's will. He will bend in every way, no matter how clean his conscience is. He relaxes his hand, turning the loose fist into an open palm, Javert continues to thrust against it desperately, and Gisquet lets him for a few seconds before withdrawing.

"Feel for the desk Javert," He says, commanding. Javert obeys and clutches the wood between his fingers. "Good. Now lay yourself against it, feel for the other side."

Javert barely hesitates before bending and pressing himself flat onto the surface of the desk. Gisquet mutters something in approval and watches as Javert's expression changes from stern determination to contented satisfaction at having pleased his superior. Gisquet doesn't need to tell him to remain still. Javert will stay there forever as long as Gisquet doesn't request something of the contrary, stubborn as an oak and obedient to the last.

Gisquet heads to a sleek redwood armoire and lets the door swing open to his touch. A quick glance over at Javert tells him that the man is curious now, though he's not stupid and it won't take long before he understands. The leather is expensive, black and soft, cut into identical strips and dripping smoothly across his wrist. Gisquet considers it a beautiful instrument, excessively painful, and a stronger man than him could cause serious permanent damage with such an object. It slides over his palms, catching between his fingers letting out the telltale squeak of leather, at this sound Javert tenses. Gisquet had hoped he could surprise with the first blow, but perhaps the anticipation of pain is sweeter.

"Would you have me count, monsieur?" Javert's voice is unnervingly steady and Gisquet feels something akin to pride at the question. He wishes he could drag Javert before the whole station house and force them all to watch their superior as his skin is bitten with the tongues of leather, calling for them to see how beautiful obedience truly is, looking each subordinate in the eye and challenging them to be so devoted to the cause of justice as Inspector Javert. However, this private candlelit room will have to do, and Gisquet's heart swells with satisfaction, knowing that this man is his and at his mercy.

"If it pleases you," Gisquet says, placing a soothing hand on the small of Javert's back. "If it keeps you focused, but I do not wish for numbers to control your tongue, scream if the option presents itself."

"You would like me to...scream, monsieur?" Javert's hesitation is punctuated with a swallow and Gisquet watches the stock at his throat shift.

"I would like you to be yourself, Javert. It is of no consequence whether you scream or not, I merely wish for your humanity. Scream, shout, cry, tears shall fall I have no doubt about it, but above all do not feel ashamed."

"I will do my best, monsieur."

Javert's hands grip the edge of the table and his nails dig into the wood, it creaks slightly beneath his weight, but it will hold. His cock is still hard and aching between his legs, begging for the gentle touch of his superior, it brushes against the smooth wood of a desk leg and Javert winces.

Gisquet puts a final bracing hand on the top of Javert's thigh, wordlessly telling him to keep still and steady. He eyes where he pressed with his fingertips, red quickly fading to white, and swings back. The whip hits the spot on Javert's thigh and Javert lets out a sudden grunt of pain followed by a sharp intake of breath. The tails of leather have left several welts at once, the effect is suitable to Gisquet's tastes, and he pulls his arm back to swing again. He lands in the same place, the sting fresh for just a moment and then resolving to a dull ache. Javert expects the second and doesn't cry out so hard, but he is still reduced to panting. His face presses against the desk surface and he finds himself inadvertently kissing the blotting paper. He prays that Gisquet won't consider this insolence.

Gisquet brings the whip down again, this time on the opposite thigh. The pain is harder now, fresh, there's strength in the swing, and Javert bites down. He grits his teeth to avoid the pain, suppressing all sound despite Gisquet's request that he bare himself as human. Javert cannot force tears where they will not fall, but he knows Gisquet's hand. He has barely begun to play.

As if in answer to these silent thoughts Gisquet whips him several times in quick succession, the tongues land on his thighs, lower back, buttocks, the back of his knees, licking with sharp painful stings. By the end of these rapid strokes he is whimpering in pain, tears pool softly in his eyes but the first is yet to fall onto the material that now hangs beneath. Gisquet turns the whip round in his hand, holding the loose tails in his fist, the hard length of the handle sticking out from the bed of leather. It is hard wood, the tip coated in silver, and Gisquet swings hard. The heaviness is unexpected and Javert lurches forward on the desk, splaying his body across the surface in sudden shock, paper falls to the floor and the inkwell threatens to tip. Then comes the pain, blossoming from the thin welt across both his thighs. Javert feels a tear splash onto the blindfold and collect there, wet against his face. He holds his breath for a few seconds, his chest heaving. There is no time for indignation or humiliation, if the prefect himself wishes this occasion then Javert will do his duty. He will deliver himself unto his superior with a nobly raised chin. He lifts his head at this thought, staring across at the darkness, jerking forward again as Gisquet hits him with the whip handle.

He lets out a pitiful moan of pain, but Gisquet does not relent. Instead the strokes appear to get harder and more aggressive, there is less time between each. Gisquet watches as his canvas becomes red with welts and the promise of future bruises. He makes a mental note to keep Javert active tomorrow instead of in a sedentary desk position. It is the least he can do. Almost angry at his own compassion he swings a final time before turning the whip the correct way and lashing out the last blows.

Even behind the blindfold Gisquet can tell that Javert is a mess, a whimpering mess caught in the throngs of pain. He tentatively touches at a red welt on Javert's thigh, tracing it gently. Javert moans, high pitched and wavering, lacking any formality or the faculties of control.

He pulls at the back of the stock, lifting Javert upright and providing a steady hold as he shifts and finds a place of comfort on his feet. Gisquet watches as Javert tenses his thighs and tests the pain, one hand is still braced on the desk and the other is gripping to Gisquet's shoulder.

"There Javert, you're alright. You did well. I'm pleased." Again Javert's features are graced with that not quite almost smile and Gisquet smiles himself in return. He reaches for the knot at the back of the blindfold and loosens it, allowing it to fall into his hands. It's wet with tears that Gisquet is pleased with. He taps under Javert's chin, coaxing him to look up, convincing him that it isn't shameful to look into his eyes. "Thank you, Javert."

Javert seems overwhelmed. His brow relaxes and his cheeks flush with renewed colour at such praise from his superior. "Monsieur, I—" Javert struggles for words and Gisquet allows him a moment to gather his resources. "Your kindness...it is...but—"

Gisquet raises an eyebrow, then simultaneously their eyes slide down and Gisquet sees Javert's erection, red and proud between his legs, dripping with need. It surely aches from stimulation and lack of respite. Gisquet nods and reaches down, grasping it in a firm first, the other hand braced against Javert's chest. Javert grits his teeth and sets his jaw, his countenance is flush with concentration and intensity, but Gisquet's well-practised hand cannot keep him away from the edge for long. He climaxes with a subdued cry, delving his head into Gisquet's shoulder and pressing his lips to the rich material of his coat. Gisquet reaches a hand round to hold the back of Javert's neck, keeping him steady, stroking gently with a thumb.

"I am proud of you," Gisquet says softly into the crook of Javert's neck. "Of all your work too."

"Thank you, monsieur." There is barely a hitch of breath of hesitation. Javert seems to be reclaiming his senses, authority draws back over his figure, still bare and aching, but strong. Gisquet reaches into his pocket for a clean handkerchief and passes it off to Javert, turning away as Javert dresses to protect his modesty. It is a strange action after such an intimate moment.

"Tomorrow then," He says finally, once Javert is dressed, perfectly orderly with a well-tied cravat and smooth coat front, completely as he was before except for one small detail. Gisquet chooses to rectify this, turns Javert with his hands, runs his fingers through the hair that has come loose. Gisquet works his fingers through it, smoothing down the dark tresses with a hint of silver until it is gathered neatly at the base of his neck, and then he works it into the silk ribbon. "Everything is in order. I will see you in the morning."

"Good evening, monsieur," Javert says, fingers closing round his hat as he heads for the door and prepares for a walk home in the night.

"Good evening, Inspector."

 


End file.
